


Sanctuary:  A Piece Of Fiction Set In The ZooDystopia Universe

by greywolfe



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a sort of happy ending, Anthropomorphic, Bonfires, Bullying, Depressing, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Furry, Gay, Gay Male Character, Government Conspiracy, M/M, No Sex, No Smut, No Spoilers, Police Brutality, Segregation, Suicide, Talking Animals, ZooDystopia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7590934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywolfe/pseuds/greywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collars affect everything.</p><p>How you perceive the world, how you make your way in the world and sometimes even how you die in the world.</p><p>Science hasn't mapped out these connections, but Doctor Jefferson aims to at least try.</p><p>Using the Zootopia Police Department as a cover, he steals mammals away from Zootopia, where he learns everything he can about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Case Of Mistaken Identity

** **

Thank you [Velsen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Velsen/pseuds/Velsen) for the amazing cover image.

**DISCLAIMER**

I do not own Zootopia or the characters found in Zootopia. Zootopia is the property of Disney, and is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

 

**WARNINGS!**  
This is a not-at-all happy piece of fiction. LOTS of Seriously Depressing Content Within.  
This piece of fiction contains concepts of segregation.  
This piece of fiction deals with bullying as a child.  
This piece of fiction hints [very broadly] at general police brutality.  
This piece of fiction hints [very broadly] at a kind of government conspiracy.  
This piece of fiction features a drug addict.  
This piece of fiction features gay lovers. [spoiler: there's no sex.]  
This piece of fiction contains a pair of suicides.  
This piece of fiction depicts a bonfire burning of a body [but not in great detail.]

* * *

# Chapter I: A Case Of Mistaken Identity

I don't remember being knocked out.

More to the point, I don't remember being knocked out, plunked into a car, put on a boat and ferried to God knows where.

The last thing I really remember was walking from the Fruit Market to Hill Street. I was, as the Zootopia Police Department politely put it, "following a mark." This, of course, isn't actually the case. I was on my home from work after a busy day, trying to buy a couple of things for a soiree I was planning to host for some close friends. It was going to be a very lazy Friday night. Good friends, good food and some effortless conversation.

Apart from the itch around my neck - from whenever I remembered that my collar was there - it wasn't going to be a weekend out of the ordinary at all.

But then some bastard tried to steal my groceries. And some other bastard called the Police Department. It's not too much of a stretch to figure out what happened next: I ran after the thief, my heart rate picked up, my collar went off and I was laid to waste within seconds, falling flat on my back while simultaneously trying to clutch at my throat to get the Goddamn collar off. The Goddamn collar that was frying all my motor neurons while the punk with my groceries sped off into the night.

There were witnesses. Lots and lots of them. And all of them might attest to the fact that I was minding my business. But most of them were prey. And I'm a predator. And when you're chasing after someone and your fangs are bared and you're dripping saliva because you're angry, well...

...I was chasing a mark. That's how it comes out.

So when I wake up, hours later in a quiet, white looking room with fluorescent lights beaming down at me and an ancient doctor's face looming in my field of vision, it catches me a little by surprise. But what catches me even more by surprise is the fact that that itch is...gone.

Experimentally, I reach my paws up to my throat, feeling for the collar. The ever-familiar, impossibly honed bit of precision engineering that isn't exactly as precise as it should be. But it is not there. My fingers find bare, ragged fur, instead. Fur that hasn't been able to breathe for nearly forty years at this point. The doctor - a stag of some renown, just looking at his antlers - looks down at me with a worried sort of face.

But as soon as I move, he nods, as if everything is in order.

It takes me a moment to realize a couple of things: the first is that he isn't absolutely terrified of me - not scared witless like most normal prey animals would be. The second is that my hands aren't somehow strapped down to prevent me from doing something...stupid. And the third is that my collar is off.

My collar.

Is off.

In what feels like slow motion, I bring my paws up to my face so that I can stare at them. And I realize that I can't properly see them, because of the refraction and reflection of light.

There is that one final thing I realize:

Because the collar is off, I am weeping.

In truth, I am not weeping because the collar itself is no longer around my throat and I am not being eternally monitored. No. I am weeping because this moment of freedom will be fleeting. The doctor is going to inspect me. He is going to find that - apart from burns and perhaps mild trauma from where the collar shocked me, I am otherwise healthy and hale and, with due haste, he will have one of his subordinates walk over to me, have another, larger subordinate pin down my arms and legs so that I cannot fight back, and they will slip the device around my neck once more and I will be a prisoner.

A robot.


	2. Leo Of The Herd

# Chapter II: Leo Of The Herd

I have many memories of my younger years. And many of them revolve around being bullied. You see, I am an albino lion. I am snow white. In the darkest of nights, with the moon shining down upon me, you might see me as an angel-lion. A lion soft in the touch of that particular light. With my white, impressive mane, and my rugged stature and my quiet knowledge of science, I was a prime target for that kind of behaviour.

I thought time and tide would wash away those feelings of being shamed for who I am, but repeated bludgeoning by other kids - especially after I got my collar and couldn't fight back - turned me into an introvert. A robot introvert.

The collar itself might be bad for a lot of reasons, but it was sort of good at one thing. It levelled out my anger. I couldn't be angry at the kids teasing me, because being angry nudged my heart rate. And nudging my heart rate meant getting a shock. And getting a shock was incredibly unpleasant. So, even as the taunts grew worse and I wanted to clutch my head to my paws and cry, I let the emotions go. Let my body drift off into some ethereal, calm place where there was only softness and light.

After my tears, after breaking down at the sure knowledge that the collar was going to be returned to me, I allowed myself back into that childhood place of warmth and calm. Where - even if the collar was given back to me, I would not feel it.

Somewhere out there - out in the world - the doctor does exactly the tests I knew he would. He tests my fur, notes that there are burns and scars but that these are all negligible. He checks under my mane and along my neck. A professional paw feeling over the rugged, white fur there. There's a welt surrounding my neck right now, and it's getting worse, but it's nothing to write home about. Just another predator. Just another shock.

I allow him to tip my head back. To inspect the damage. I know better than to react. No growling. No anger. No pulling away. This is a clinical facility. There are probably police outside. They are probably waiting for me to make a statement. A statement that will most likely be entirely ignored. But it's important - even in this blissful Zen state I'm in to realize that I must not provoke more ire than I have already provoked.

The moment arrives. The stag leans back. I put my arms down and against the bed, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

The stag clears his throat.

"That will not be necessary, Master Sedris."

He knows my name. Of course he knows my name. The police probably told him.

I relax my paws against my belly - my very ample belly. Can't do sports. The collar won't tolerate them.

The stag steps closer, his eyebrows raised over the top of his glasses. His expression is...mirthful? He is smiling? Of course he's smiling. He has the power here. If I do anything at all wrong, he will slap the collar right back on me and we will be back at square one.

"I will not be putting the collar back on, Maser Sedaris. Please sit up."

This is puzzling. It is puzzling enough that I break myself out of my reverie so that I can look at him. Though, look isn't really the word. I stare at him. Aghast. This isn't how the rules have it.

"I am being quite serious, Master Sedaris." And then he launches into an explanation. One that sucks the breath right out of me.

"I will not be putting the collar back on you now or for the foreseeable future. Once you feel you are able, you may sit up. I have clothing for you - it is...ill-fitting, but we will make something for you within the next day or so. You are my patient. You may call me Doctor Jefferson. Or just Doctor, if you prefer. You are here because I asked for you. Here..."

And at this, he walks to a window that I hadn't seen before. Tugging the blinds up so that I can see outside. It isn't night. There are no city buildings outside. No Zootopia. No hustle at all, in fact.

"...is the Sanctuary."

I actually do sit up at this. My eyes staring outside at the greenery that stretches on for miles. It reminds me of my childhood.

I stare out the window for a moment, my head turning so that I can look at the old stag. "I know...about the Sanctuary."

Well, I sort of do.

The Sanctuary is a fabled place. A place that is sort of part dream and part nightmare all rolled into one. It is part dream because if you end up here, it is true. They don't make you wear collars. But you are now part of a science experiment. And the nightmare is that you no longer really exist. Oh. Zootopia is still aware of you. You still get mail, which includes bills and correspondence. But you are no longer really integrated into the city.

Although, to every predator who ends up here that feels like a kind of heaven. The only problem is that the science experiment doesn't normally last very long. At the most, people like Doctor Jefferson request a very specific sort of specimen and they then run tests. And once the tests are over, they send you back. I must have been a very unique specimen: an albino lion - which means they get to run a raft of very esoteric tests on me. But it also means that I'm probably one of dozens of lions.

"How long...?"

"Two weeks." He says, simply. There is no malice in his voice. "Maybe a month."

"What tests?"

"DNA tests - trying to flag where albinism comes from."

So exactly like I thought.

But then something else. It is the first time I see that particular, searching look on Doctor Jeffererson's face, but it won't be the last. He looks...crafty. Yes. That is exactly the expression. "And a case study. A case study about collars."


	3. Houses

# Chapter III: Houses

A kindly older Zebra escorts me out of the hospital and into a waiting little golf-cart apparatus. It turns out that there are a lot of these on the "roads" of the Sanctuary. Each of these is perfectly cobbled in white stone that stretches on for miles as far as the eye can see in every direction. There must have been a kind of master plan, because the Zebra - who tells me his name is Denton - seems to know exactly where he's going.

The golf-cart car is perfectly suited for looking around and, as we drive, Denton suggests that I do exactly that. And in a way, what I see is confusing. Confusing and heart-warming and heartbreaking all at the same time. All of the predators here seem relaxed. And none of them are wearing collars. Some of them are taking afternoon strolls. Some of them are sitting out in the park. Some are heading in and out of a little store that looks - to my eye - like a convenience store. They are doing the things I was doing before my life went quite so awry and I ended up here.

"I wish it could be like this everywhere," Denton says as he watches a bear sitting out in the sun with the morning paper resting upon his lap as he reads it.

"Is...is everyone here for the same reason?" I ask, belatedly.

Denton nods. "Some medical condition. And also that case study. The one about collars. Jefferson is trying very hard to get some motivational literature into the big science journals so that he can prove that the collars aren't actually effective. That, in fact, they've done more harm than good." My hand goes up to my neck, involuntarily.

It makes sense to me, now, why the predators are behaving the way they are. They are trying to come across as normal. As non-frightening. As much like prey as they can be.

For a time, I just stare, watching the mammals go by. Getting a good look at how happy and at peace they are. Some are even laughing. Something that is sort of possible with a collar on, but difficult unless you've learned the trick. You can never raise your heart beat. So you can never guffaw or fall into fits of laughter like a prey animal can. What you can do is something that approximates a very cynical laugh. You sound awful doing it, but it expresses your "joy" at the joke being shared.

At length, Denton pulls into a little house. 57A.

"This is yours for the duration of your stay," he says, palming a key into my paw. "Here at the Sanctuary, you never need to fear theft or violence. There's nothing to steal. And if anyone does harm you, well..."

I can figure it out. They get tranquilized. Bundled back into their collars. Shipped back to Zootopia. Handed over to the Zootopia Police Department. Probably booked for life in a cell for one.

It's the same reason there hasn't been a revolt on Sanctuary.

I take the keys from Denton who gives me a friendly wave as I heave my body out the little car.

For a second, I stand there, bemused - watching him go. But then, I turn to face the house. It isn't exactly like my house back in Zootopia. It won't have the same creaking floorboards or the same wonky shower or the same fridge that only lights up when the door is open at a certain angle. But without my collar on, it feels more like home than my house ever has.

Oh. It isn't mine. And I know it isn't mine. But just the fact that it has been given in honesty and without the need to prostrate myself before the will of Zootopia makes all the difference.

I push the key into the door, turn it, hear the click and push the wooden slab open. Inside, it is sparse. Kind of impersonal. But that's exactly the way it should be, given the fact that I'm not going to be here for very long. Taking a very quick look around, I find that there's a sheaf of money lying on the kitchen table and a slip on top of that telling me that the green notes all came out of my bank account. I also discover that the fridge is bare, that the bed has been made with crisp, winter-ready blankets and that there's no TV, radio or computer. I imagine that the idea is to keep the Sanctuary self-contained. No news gets in. No news gets out. Not until Jefferson and the other doctors are ready to publish something.

It should feel kind of ominous. We're here, but not here. But it also lends a kind of pastoral, peaceful tranquillity to the surroundings that I haven't felt in years. TV was around when I was a young lion, of course, but we'd never been wealthy enough to buy one. And I didn't really know what I was missing until my first years in University. And even then...

...I might have liked comedies or science fiction or fantasy TV, but the collar prohibited me from getting very invested in anything. So I had stuck to science. Stuck to it like glue. Never getting excited over interesting finds. Being numb to the fact that my name showed up in lights on an all-singing, all-dancing paper about User Interface design in Computer Science. I wanted to cry when I got my Doctorate of Science, but the minute I was up on that stage, with all those eyes on me...

...that blinkenlight had gone yellow.

It would have gone red if I hadn't reigned myself in. If I hadn't pulled myself into that secret place of no hurt.

I find that there's a desk in one of the rooms. The desk is ill-placed, situated as it is against a wall of no substance. There are, you see, no pictures in the house. So, at great personal cost, I drag the desk over to one of the windows, huffing and panting as I work muscles that haven't been worked in nearly forty years. Exerting myself in a manner that feels at once alien and at once beautiful.

My heart rate speeds up. Up. Up. And that switched on part of me - the part that's terrified of the electric shock that it _knows_ is coming is screaming blue murder at my feet and my arms for doing all these things. My body still reacts in that same, dull, terrified way as it always has - shrinking in on itself in preparation for the first volts of electricity to plow through it, but the shock never comes. Again, and in wonder, I put my fingers to the singed, burned part of my neck - where the fur is all gone. Find myself stroking at the spot where clean, beautiful fur ends and nothingness begins.

My body - as if on auto-pilot, makes its way to the nearest mirror and I stare at my once-handsome face in the mirror. But mostly, I only have eyes for that groove of well-worn fur that is the tell-tale place where the abomination once lay.

And here. And now. In this house, I weep again. For I am more at home here than I have ever been in my whole life. Even if it has only been maybe twelve hours.

Two weeks, he'd said.

A month, maybe.

It's like I'm five again.

I am five.

And it is that last summer.


	4. The Long Walk

# Chapter IV: The Long Walk

I sleep like a baby.

Actually, that's not true. I sit up and stare out the window for the longest time. Here, out in the Sanctuary, I discover that - by night, at least - you can see Zootopia in the distance. Or, at least, you can see traces of it as lights in the sky. But what catches my eye isn't that. It is how there are still people out and about until late at night. At least one person knocks on my door to introduce himself. He is Trevor, a well-built younger wolf. He tells me that there's a pool party. That most of the hospital staff will be there. That I am welcome to join them if I want to.

But I kind of don't.

I want to have a little peace and quiet. So I sit. I have long since discovered that there isn't actually any reading material in the house. Again. Impersonal. So, for the longest time, I stare at the blankness of the desk in front of me, taking in the mahogany it is made of. I find my fingers delighting in the grooves of the wood, find myself - against my will - smiling at how it feels warm against my palm. And before I know it, I am up and walking toward the door. Out and down the little, lighted porch. I turn around to lock behind me, but then I remember Denton's words. And he's right. Apart from the money that I have now turned into food, there really isn't anything to steal in my little abode. So I leave the door unlocked.

I pick a white, cobblestone trail at random, lumbering my way along it. There are - I discover - little signs that point down various trails. And that the cobblestone turns into other types of paving. Creating little districts that are denoted by the way they're framed. The shopping district - which I visited earlier - has streets of sun-golden stone. The white cobblestone is reserved for pathways along which people can drive, but houses generally end up having red brick garages.

One of the signs points to the beach.

While it is cold - winter is steadily approaching - it is not so cold that I can turn this little adventure down. So I start heading along that way, following a trail that twists and turns until the red brick gives way to golden sand. Doctor Jefferson had promised me clothing by tomorrow. Right now, I'm still mostly dressed in the hospital clothes he had me decked out in. Which, of course, flags me as a newcomer. But my shoes are off and in my paws so that I can feel the still-warm sand beneath my feet.

The beach itself seems absolutely pristine. There's still lights up and behind me, but down here it's dark enough that the natural light of the moon casts that particular, white pallor over everything. My feet carry me to the edge of the water. And, without realizing it, I'm playing the same game I played with the water when I was five years old: letting it nearly come up to my feet - then scampering away for the safety of dry land.

And I walk.

I allow myself to kind of park in neutral as I put one foot in front of other, casually repeating the process as I lumber further and further from the starting point of my little house. And belatedly, I realize something interesting about the Sanctuary. Something that I find I'm surprised about:

There are no fences of any kind. No razor wire. No electric rhombuses. No impossible-to-scale, thick-as three walls iron bars. The Sanctuary is totally open. If I thought I had the strength, I might be able to swim back to Zootopia.

But, looking down at my rotund body, I know I don't. And the doctors know I don't. And two weeks of freedom isn't going to help, in that regard.

But the thought has started to build in my head: maybe I don't want to go back to Zootopia. After all, I'd have to accept the collar again. Accept my life as a robot once more. Make peace with the fact that I can't have the emotions I'm having right now. No crying or laughing. No staring out at the ocean and seeing the cone of light it makes on the surface of the waves and being at peace. Well. Maybe that one. I can certainly have the at peace feeling. I'd just be parking all the other feelings there and keeping them at bay.

After a while of just staring at the sea - drinking in my fill of how beautiful it all is - I turn around and start to head back for my little house. I aim my body in that direction and am genuinely going to head home when I spot something else. At first, I'm not sure what it is, but then my brain makes sense of the red light.

I remember that from long ago. Because Grandpa Sedris used to smoke just something like it. A briar. He wasn't really supposed to. The collar brings good and bad things. A bad thing: if you smoke, you're liable to get your heart worked up. And if you start coughing, that pushes you from green to yellow and from yellow to red real quick. A good thing: you don't end up with smoking as a vice.

But Grandpa Sedris was smart. Grandpa Sedris was how I got into science in the first place. The collars then were primitive. And if you knew what you were doing, you could hack the signal. You just needed to jam that part of the collar and make sure it never came into contact with your skin and you'd be fine. So, late at night, when he knew no one was watching, he'd jam his own collar and we'd go sit out in the bushes and he'd talk to me. Tell me about electronics and how they worked.

Grandpa Sedris had looked into my collar - like he'd done with the collar of his son, but my collar was too new. And so he never could find a way to help me out. But when it got too bad, and I'd cry, he would wrap his big arms around me, settle his mane along my chin and hold me - rocking me to sleep so that I wouldn't be angry or sore.

So, I know a briar when I see one.

As I approach the person in the shadows, they step forward. And, immediately, I know who I'm facing. The antlers give it away.

"Doctor Jefferson?"

His affirmation is spelt in the air - that cigar bobbing up and down as he lets me know that it is, indeed, him.

"Lots of new folk do what you did," he says, as he walks to join me. "The first night is the most complex. The most filled with emotion. It's difficult to be around others when you're feeling that way. So you tend to cop out of social responsibilities. There's only a handful of places you can go if you want to be out. Sanctuary is big, but not...Zootopia big. So first timers often come down to the beach.

"Why was there a pool party?" I ask, curious.

"Oh," he shrugs, his massive shoulders, "because we can. Some of the pools are indoors and they're heated. In the winter it makes it possible for folks to swim if they want to. But it's also just relaxing - to be with others - to share the evening."

But there's something else. I can tell by the way the cigar turns my way - a puff of oak scent brushing the air as it passes my nose.

"We had to say good bye to Sara tonight. Maybe you made the right decision."

I can't help it. I lick my black lips, nervous at what he means. In the back of my head, of course, I sort of know.

"I can't keep predators here indefinitely. Though I kind of wish I could." Silence for about fifteen paces, and then his voice is lower. A quiet rumble against the rumble of the waves of the sea, crashing to our left. "What happened...how it's happened. It isn't fair or right."

I don't know if he sees it, but I nod.

"But you...and others like you. I have been collecting mammals that fall just shy of the norm for the last year or so. And I _know_ I can make a scientific case for harm. That was why I asked after you."

"And you couldn't issue me an invitation? You had to have me tranquilized? What actually happened to me?"

It's his turn to shake his head. "There are too many who don't want my work to continue. You said you knew about the Sanctuary. Well, so do the prey. And lots of them - especially some of my 'friends'" - at this, he actually makes the air quotes "in science. The collar, they maintain, is part of the status quo. And messing with the status quo will unravel many, many threads. Threads which they would rather not touch."

I can actually feel the anger rising in my chest. And my instincts - my forty-year-old instincts - save me. I bite down on my rage. Let it flow through my claws and paws as they tromp the sand into mush. "So they would rather allow..." I shake my head in disgust. "I was four when the teasing started. When I got my collar, it just intensified. I thought..."

I remember thinking, at the tender age of five - like every predator - that the collar was a sign of growing up. That it meant that the teasing would stop because I was a big lion. And that people wouldn't mess with a big lion. But the prey - especially the prey - soon figured out that the collar could work for them. And kids are merciless. Kids are especially merciless when you're only just learning the ropes of what it means to be an "adult" with a collar around your neck.

"I know..." he says with a sigh.

"No," I say bitterly. "I don't think you do."

And then, the old stag astounds me. Walking just a little faster than I am, he rounds on me, stopping me in my tracks. his hands thrown up in the air, his eyes boring into mine through his gold-rimmed spectacles.

"I do."

I try and weave past him, trying to leave him behind, because it's very, very obvious that he has no idea of what it's like to live like that, but every time I try to slip past - bobbing left, or going right, he stays there, right in front of me.

"For a year - back when I inherited this experiment from Doctor Thompson, I made a point of wearing a collar. I made a point of living like you do. Now, a year isn't...enough time to assimilate the range of behaviours you have, but I have a very shrewd idea of what it's like. I didn't like it at all," he adds, his eyes on fire, now as he warms to this particular subject. "But I was clear. Even if I should beg, or even if I should shock myself to within an inch of my life, the collar must not come off until the year was over. My subordinates hated that year. They hated the fact that they had to look on while I did that to myself. But it was important. It was important to me and it is important to you. So..."

He finally relaxes so that I can slip past him, but I have stopped dead still, listening to him. "If you don't believe me, you can ask around. You can even...." and he lifts his neck. I can't see anything by moon-light. And feeling isn't going to do any good. He wore the collar for a year? That must have been some twenty-odd years ago, if he's as old as I am. Maybe he's older, even. The fur's grown back into its regular patterns. But seeing...ah, now that's a different matter.

"...I want to ask you for your help, please, Master Sedris. I would like to hear your stories."

He wants to see my scars. I suppose fair's fair.

"Come over to my house," I tell him. "And we can maybe arrange something."

He falls into step with me and we walk - walk in silence until we reach one of those white, cobblestone roads again. I come out at the wrong place and he has to guide me, showing me landmarks. Things I can recognize to find 57A again, should I get off the beaten track.

I push my door open, allowing him to go first. It's quiet now. Everyone else must have dispersed to their beds.

I can't help but think of Sara. Sara who is counting down the hours. Sara who is - probably even now, weeping in her bedroom at the thought of the steel vice descending back and around her neck again so that she can "rejoin society."

How bitter that must feel. How stifling.

These are the thoughts running through my head as I survey Jefferson's broad neck. My fingers reaching under the fur, eyes exploring and inspecting. And I find tell-tale signs. The sort of thing I know from many a long year of feeling my own neck. He isn't lying.

We sit, deep into the night, talking over coffee. And when he's gone, I sleep like a baby.


	5. Feeling Found

# Chapter V: Feeling Found

The following morning is like a little miracle. A little gift sent from heaven. It isn't my bed. No, but the sounds of the city are not around me. And that one thing coupled with the feeling of being free make the day worthwhile even before it's begun. Doctor Jefferson had given me some creams and balms for my neck. Two weeks wasn't going to be enough time to heal the lifetime of scars, of course, but it would be enough to make me feel better for a little while.

We had also arranged for a few meetings. One of these was a psychologist - there was a lot of backed up trauma there and Doctor Jefferson wanted to start addressing it. But more to the point, he wanted actual testimony of what had happened to me - and how the collar had shaped how that had all happened.

[21 July, 2016]

But first, breakfast. Breakfast is simple. A pair of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. And all of this outside, watching others. I don't know what I'm expecting, but I figure I'm going to get a lot of what I saw yesterday. And I am so, so grateful for how normal this all seems. There are predator and prey alike, standing in the streets, talking.

I spot Denton on one of the paths, ferrying someone along to one of the great halls. Looks like a badger. A large, lively fellow who is clearly content to be sitting with the zebra. They're sharing what looks like a granola bar? It's difficult to tell from where I'm sitting. Even though my eyes are fairly good and they're not that far away, they've obscured the act by turning enough to make whatever it is that they're eating difficult to make out.

It doesn't matter. Here's a nurse, not too far away, playing ball with what looks like a youngster who's just woken up. I take stock of this young lady, just closing my eyes and watching her shoot hoops in the centre of the large park around which all the houses are built. There's something exceptionally fluid about her motions that suggest that she's been doing this for a little while - but, clearly, not long enough, because the nurse - a slightly older and sleek looking elk - heading up toward his prime - jumps and scores right before she can do very much about it. And she's a very fleet-footed tiger.

For a moment, I expect this is all going to go wrong - that the moment of truth has arrived. She's a predator, after all. She's going to be furious that a prey animal bested her in a game of skill, but she slows down, smiles. Laughs, even as she takes his hand and shakes it. "Tomorrow? Same time?"

The elk smiles back. Nods. "Maybe you'll be able to score one, then. You're doing a lot better."

And then I see it. She seemed pretty fluid, but not _quite_ like water. One of her legs has betrayed her. I can't figure out if this is a problem-from-birth or something that she picked up along the way, but when she's back on the ground and walking like a regular mammal, it's far more noticeable.

The elk spots me and gives me a cheerful wave, before he begins ushering his charge down to - what I assume - is the hospital for more treatment and tests. The tigress goes - willingly. And they talk. It doesn't matter what the conversation is about, really. It just matters that they're comfortable enough with each other that they can even do that.

Breakfast done, I check the time on an old fashioned clock that Sanctuary was kind enough to provide. They took my 'phone. Probably deactivated, it, too. It says 09:03. Time to head on over to the grounds and seek out the little set of rooms that Doctor Jefferson pointed out last night. That's where all the psychology happens. And even though I know that I'm going to tell someone there about my past, and even though my past is pretty dismal, by all accounts, it's not as dismal as it might have been, and this little miracle of a day without a collar has left me feeling found.


	6. Switch Opens

# Chapter VI: Switch Opens

It's the first day of class forty years ago.

I don't really want to go.

While it has been a slow summer and while I've been mostly avoiding all the other children, actually going to school is going to make that significantly more difficult. There's the issue of my fur. Mom thinks it looks beautiful. That I look like a lion from Heaven. Grandma agrees. Grandpa Sedris doesn't really have an opinion, but he's told me at least once that I shouldn't worry about what the other kids call me. They called him four eyes at school. He didn't like it, but he learned science.

He got out of school and made a reasonable amount of money doing repair work for mammals who needed it. While he didn't _like_ going into the prey parts of town, he would do it. And he would remain calm and quiet and stoic while they made fun of the "king of the jungle" repairing Television sets. But he always made sure they paid him. And he did that in a particularly crafty way. He knew his way around electronics and, at a whim - a whim far after the fact of fixing the television, he could break it again if they decided he wasn't good enough as far as mechanics went. I wanted to take his advice, because the kids gave me nothing but trouble, but it didn't work.

Every time they said something about my fur colour, i'd just get angry and prove them right: predators don't know how to behave. It only occurred to me - very far down the line - that it takes two to tango. Calling someone a name is a sign of you behaving just as terribly.

So I didn't want to go to that first day.

And it ended, exactly like I thought it might.

I didn't fight them, because my mom had already had "the talk" with me. About how if I did fight back, we'd all end up in trouble. So when the teasing got too bad, I did what I was somewhat good at - apart from computers - I ran like the wind to a safe place. And I huddled there. And let the wind erase me.

But I had to go back the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

As long as I didn't have the collar, this was all tolerable. It wasn't great, but I could run away.

But on the day of my taming...

I thought it'd all change. I thought the vista of possibility - of being an adult - would open things up and give me an even footing in this world, but instead, it just made matters worse.

I learned very quickly that I could not run.

I learned very quickly that prey - particularly canny prey - knew the secret of the collar - the secret that had taken me moments to discover when my father put it on me, his eyes streaming as he did it. His heart rate never changing as his heart broke.

One very short sprint told me everything I needed to know about running: don't do it. So all those secret places I'd found? They were for nothing.

I _had_ to learn to take Grandpa Sedris' advice.

At first, it was supremely difficult, but I started reading and - without too much searching, I found a magic trick that made everything easier. But it took a year or two to learn, and years more to perfect. All I had to do was let go.

This meant that - apart from being teased, the prey animals would also beat me up, but so long as I cocooned myself into that warm, secret place, they could do anything to me and it wouldn't matter. Which was probably the only reason I ended up staying in that school for all eternity. We understood that moving me would mean admitting some sort of defeat. And some sort of defeat might very well bring the Zootopia Police Department down on us.

It took the prey several weeks, but eventually - after I stopped giving them the time of day - they moved on to other targets. If the predator wasn't going to be fierce in return, what was the point?

But the damage? Ah, the damage had been done.


	7. Randall

# Chapter VII: Randall

I meet Randall on that second day almost right after the psychologist's appointment. He's a little less green than I am, having been here for a week, already, but that week - I'm told - has been...open to interpretation.

I find him because one of the nurses needs my help lifting him. Getting him away from his toilet. Turns out that she's a small rabbit and Randall's a wolf. A large, swarthy one. It takes my every ounce of strength to get him to the bed. And then, I see exactly why he threw up. Too many little white pills. I don't know how he got them here, on Sanctuary, but I guess they haven't had time to test them and figure out what they're for, so they just gave them to him.

But I can tell, just from looking.

Randall never _quite_ figured out the trick I did.

I take the rabbit aside, after I've gotten the big wolf settled onto the bed, grabbing one of the orange pill bottles and I explain.

"He keeps taking these," she says, poking at the plastic, see-through amber tube. "We know they're drugs - of a sort - but he won't explain what they're for, exactly. And none of our tests have reverse engineered them."

"So..." I look down at the bottle, not quite knowing how or where to begin. "...your doctors are...good. But some things slip through. Because of the way we're treated - really, because of the way we have to live, some of us have figured out coping mechanisms."

She nods. She understands that part.

"This wolf friend of yours - his coping mechanism is these pills."

She nods again. She wants me to go faster. Get to the point.

I sigh, because this isn't something that lots of prey have to go through. "He doesn't know how to stay calm when his anger comes. Maybe he never learned it. Maybe he did learn it and chooses not to bother. Maybe..." I sniff at the pills, making a disgusted face. They smell as awful as they look. And they look like little skulls to me, all stacked up in my paw. A pile of death.

"...when he gets those urges, he takes a short cut. He downs a couple of these. And they throttle him. But they also do something awkward to his innards."

"Why wouldn't we have any of this stuff on hand?"

"Because there are pharmacies and then there are kind of apothecaries, I guess you'd call them. Since it's anathema for a predator to walk into one of your pharmacies without a script, I'm almost willing to be that this wolf found his own doctor who, in turn, prescribed his own medicine. If the wolf got hooked, well...that was just extra money, right?"

She seems new. Not just to this island, but new to how strange things really are for predators.

"I'm not sure you could ever quite figure out what's in these. But you might be able to figure out what the addictive part of the drug is. Also..."

I look into the room, watching the wolf as he sleeps the fear away and my eyes are drawn back, again, to the nightstand where those amber bottles were. "...you might want to throw these away. When he wakes up from his nap, he's just going to take more."

Having said that, I offer her the little tube of amber death. And I decide then and there that I'm going to come and check up on this guy later. Maybe once I've dealt with lunch and after I've done the next set of actual science tests I'm supposed to be participating in. They want samples of my fur and blood and to talk to me about my health. My health - apart from the fact that I can't really do any sort of real exercise is OK. Though it probably shouldn't be, given that I'm forty six.

But Randall is on my mind through the whole sorry mess.

And as soon as the doctors are all done prodding and poking me, I head back to number 23C. The lights are on, which is good, because it means that someone's home. I knock, first, because it's only polite. And the wolf - still kind of stoned out of his mind - makes his way to the door. He opens it up and looks down, clearly thinking that it's going to be the little bunny. Maybe she's been assigned to him. But when he spots my feet, his head swivels upward. Up further as he notices my gut. Up more until he looks into my eyes. And I kind of understand what's going through his mind, because the first thing he almost does is press the door closed in my face. But my hand presses back. And I'm not stoned, of course, so it's easy for me to keep the door open as the evening breeze blows past us.

For a moment, I'm not sure what to say to him, but he breaks the silence for me.

"Just go," he says. He sounds so tired.

"I understand," I tell him.

"I suppose you sort of do," he says, looking at the ring where my collar used to be. "But of course, when I leave here, they're going to have to give me the collar back. And when I get the collar back...it'll all be the same."

"Sure," I respond. "But you can learn. Most of us did."

And then he really does slam the door shut, with a terse, "I tried."

And that's how I meet Randall.


	8. Bartholomew's Song

# Chapter VIII: Bartholomew's Song

Days go by. Days of idyllic quiet. The mornings are always the most difficult, because I have to tell the doctors about how my life was. And little things keep slipping out. Little things I've never told anyone.

There was the time I was twenty. Twenty and in love.

But the collar makes even this little act impossible.

He was nineteen and we were down by the stream.

The moon was out and overhead and we were staring at the water as it rippled in the light. I could feel myself moving toward him. Wanting his warmth in the cold. Feeling his arm wrap around mine. And my heart started up. And, of course, I knew how it was going to end.

But we had to try.

And we get pretty close, really. But close, of course, is no cigar. My arms are around his neck and I can feel myself blush and my heart is pitter-pattering ever faster. And then my collar starts going yellow. And I know it's time to let go. I don't want to hurt this precious man. But I want this so very badly.

In the end, as the headlights of the oncoming crash almost turn into a full-on disaster, I pull away. I tug my hands into my lap. And I stare at them and breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. His collar is still blinking yellow. He hasn't learned this trick. Or, if he has, it's different for him. For a while he just stares. And, at long, long last his peace returns. The light goes green.

"I hate it," he says, simply. And I nod.

About all we can manage that evening is holding paws. But we do that for a very long time before I rest my head against his shoulder.

It didn't work out. I had the patience, but he never did. And in the end, we kind of drifted apart. It took years - a slow decay of something that should have been beautiful and free and simple and it was forever tainted and complicated by something so fundamental. Something that we never chose.

Sometimes, I think about Timothy. Occasionally, I almost get up the gumption to go and look for him, but I always think about our last conversation when that happens about how he's frustrated because he wants to go steps further, but the collar always stops him in his tracks. By this point - it's four years along - I've learned to deal with the impulses. Not shut them down, exactly, but learned to run with them. But Timothy is...he is a being of flesh. And he wants to do all those things you're supposed to be able to do with the flesh without any of the doubt or fear.

Stepping out of the little booth, I feel exactly like I've gone to Confession. Something I might have had to do if my parents had any more real conviction and actually believed. But they don't. Just one more thing the collars stomped out of us. How can there be a just God when something as perverse as this segregation exists?

I blunder into the light, staring at how green the grass looks and how pale the sky seems. And that's when I hear the sound of a piano tinkling away. I follow my ears, sharp as they are, to the little hall with some of the sports equipment. It also, it seems, doubles as a place for functions, because they've got a piano set up there. And here, I finally meet the badger.

When I push the door open, I spot him almost immediately. Not because I see him, of course, but because there's a group of mammals all clustered around him, listening. He's surprisingly good for a predator. There are, I find, even a couple of people dancing - not always with each other, but they're using the limited time they have here to just appreciate the ability to actually sway to the rhythm. There's even a nurse or two hanging around. And I find, much to my surprise that the music makes me smile. I have never particularly been into music. Part of that, of course, is the collar, but part of it is just my lack of interest. I can't describe it and I've never accurately tried. All I know is that visual things work on me - someone holding someone else's hand - that makes me smile. Or watching my father cry that night when he put the collar on me for the first time - that got my ears tipped back and my own tears flowing before I knew what I was doing, but music? Music is complex and mathematical, and from that perspective, I should get it, but I don't. Not really. But this? It might be the setting, of course, and it might be the freedom I'm seeing for the first time. Perhaps all these things combined move me in a way I've never been moved before, because I find myself tapping my fingers to the beat as I stand a little ways away at one of the tables.

[22 July, 2016]

Interestingly, Doctor Jefferson is also present. He is - it turns out - recording this, though the badger hasn't quite realized it, yet. The badger is sort of lost. Lost to the music and lost to everyone else. He just plays - plays the keys as they appeal to him. His happy ditty seeping through the island. By the end of it - by the time he returns to us - there are a great many other mammals in the little sports centre and they're all looking on in surprise.

Someone starts to clap. And then someone else does. And, belatedly, the badger turns around, his ears tucked back, his body language all-but-saying that he's surprised at the crowd and the clapping. For a moment, he's not really sure of what to do, but then he takes it all in surprising good grace, vast body unfurling so he can bow. I'm close enough that I can see the tears rolling down his cheeks - this is something else Doctor Jefferson is recording, because he moves so that he's near to me - so he can have a clear shot at what it is he's seeing.

"Thank you," the badger says, gently. His rolling, rumbling voice bringing silence to the room. "That is...the first time I've ever been able to play a piece to completion." Instinctively, his paw goes to his throat where the mark of the collar is obvious. It makes belated sense, now, why his playing wasn't entirely haphazard and why it wasn't too bad. He had - like most of us - tried.

Belatedly, he spots Doctor Jefferson. Spots the recording equipment and his demeanour changes completely. His head bows, his big paws go behind his back. He stares at his feet. His voice comes out more hesitant. "I'm...sorry, Doctor," he says, to the hushed crowd. "I've...I've always wanted to play and I never could...before." This utter submission is in complete contrast to the happy-go-lucky spirit he'd displayed before. But I understand it. He is being faced by a prey animal. And prey hold all the chips.

Doctor Jefferson keeps recording this - and for a moment, I want to rip the camera from him - I want to take this moment of sheer embarrassment - how he's belittling this badger who only wants one thing - and smash it into a thousand pieces. But Doctor Jefferson's voice is clear above every other slowly protesting voice.

"I would love for you to keep playing the piano for us, Bartholomew," he says, simply. "That is why I got it shipped here in the first place."

And immediately, the mood changes in the room, the badger rushing forward to greet the stag, his burly, vast arms encompassing the other mammal.

And this, in turn, is how I meet Bartholomew.


	9. Caged

# Chapter IX: Caged

That night - and the nights thereafter, we all go to listen to Bartholomew play. People set up board games and card games and other activities while the sun sets and the piano rolls across the green grass as blue turns to amber and amber turns to purple and purple turns to dark. Sometimes, even Randall joins us, but he stays far away from almost everyone, sort of disgusted at them, I imagine. Disgusted in their happiness and their simple peace.

I think - out of all of us - the idea of returning to Zootopia is most strongly on his mind, because that grind will begin afresh. And, somewhere in the back of my mind - having passed through my first week miraculously unscathed, here, the idea is beginning to creep its way into my head once more.

This is the worst sort of false freedom.

But it is the only freedom we are likely to ever get. A lone bright spot in a life full of puddles of darkness.

So, one night, over a cup of freshly made hot chocolate, I lumber my way over to Randall. Not so much to talk to him - his face says everything I need to know about even remotely engaging with him, but I do want someone to be near him. To at least feel a little warmth. I have noticed that most of the other mammals have basically avoided him. Something, I suppose, about how he presents himself making it difficult for others to present themselves in return. The only folks who ever interact with him are the staff. And then, I think, it's only because they have to.

Interestingly, he doesn't chase me away. But he doesn't move to talk, either. Rather, he just sips at something that looks like a concoction. Not alcohol, of course, because the island doesn't have that, but it looks like a syrupy mess of different sodas. They're all blending together and swirling to form a brown goo that probably doesn't taste appealing at all. But he brings the plastic cup to his lips and swills. Taking a long, heavy drink before he considers me at all.

"I thought I told you to go," are the first words he says to me.

"Yes," I reply, "but that was a couple of days ago. I was hoping you'd changed your mind between now and then."

He shakes his head. He has what passes for an almost-grin on his face.

"You're one of those, I guess."

I think I know exactly what he means, but I haven't had too many people who were also drug addicts in my life. Despite everything - the way we were downtrodden, the way things didn't make sense - or maybe because all of that, I have never felt the need to cloud the issue still more by piling drugs on top of everything else. And, while there have been isolated cases like that in my family, my family is rather hard about this kind of thing: you took some drugs? You can dry out in a quiet spot by yourself. Try it again? We'll take you to one of the underground doctors. And you won't see your family until you straighten out. So you'd better straighten out.

I decide to change the topic, since I don't really want to be talking about his addiction. Even though, clearly, that's what he wants to discuss.

"I'm Leo," I tell him, leaving my crossed on the table, wrapped around the mug of hot chocolate. I allow my glasses to get in the way of the wispy steam, letting them cloud so I don't necessarily see the night sky clearly. I just want this moment to be a smear of beautiful colour.

"Randall," he says, gruffly. "Why are you out here, anyway?"

"Because I figured I'd say hi," I offer in return. It's the truth.

"Despite the fact that this..." he says, gesturing to it, grandly, "...doesn't matter. And that in a couple of weeks time, the dream will be over? That you'll be back in your cage and that you and I will never meet again? And never know that we shared this particular FEVER dream?"

And immediately, listening to his voice, I think I kind of understand. At some point in the very distant past, Randall might have tried to be a poet. But poetry demands blood. And getting shocked every time you want to write something because you're feeling it...doesn't sound like a good way to go about things.

"I did try," he says, defiantly - carrying the conversation from the time we first met. "Like you probably did. I thought I could work around the cage. Thought that - though it shackled me, I could be anything I wanted. I would just have to work that much harder. And for a time, I absolutely did that."

It is, of course, absolutely true. I did, indeed try that.

"But in the end, I burned out. I burned out of trying to reach for emotions and then having to draw right back in case I went too far. I burned out of trying to describe that feeling on paper. And then I burned out trying to get people to listen." He confirms everything I thought.

"So now...?" I ask. I didn't want to talk about his addiction, but it's clear that this is the only thing he wants to talk about. Or the only thing that matters to him.

"So now, I just don't feel anything. It's easier that way," he finishes, taking another sip of his soda. And I guess it's an answer.

I don't like it, because it completely concedes that the prey have won. And, to a very real extent, they have, but it is denialism of the worst sort. There is the possibility that things could change. That's what Doctor Jefferson seems to be attempting to work toward.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, but I don't get up. Of the collection of sins Zootopia has piled upon this one poet, I can't decide which is worse: his giving up, or his family giving up, or the fact that he doesn't physically want to be part of this world anymore, so he's constructed a world of his own. A world where there is no pain or fear or sorrow. Just day after day of simulated warm gentleness that's going to destroy him at some point.

He doesn't give an answer in return. It's difficult to tell what he feels, exactly.

Our conversation, such as it is, gets interrupted by the dinner bell. Because it's a nice night out and because we're setting up to say goodbye to Melissa, the staff have decided that we're going to eat outside. I head on over to my little house and collect the package of potato salad I'd bought earlier that day, a particular favourite of mine. There's a lot of milling around as other mammals do the same. Some are carrying steaks. One elephant has a great, big bowl of what looks like most of a tree, while a fox has bought what looks like fish and fries, his paws a little laden with the pair of plates.

As we sit down, Doctor Jefferson counts heads. He tries to make a point of having everyone eat together at the same time. It promotes - as he's told us - unity and a little downtime, but - of course - there's a secondary motive, here. He just wants to make sure that he still has all of his charges.

If there's one island out in the wild that's not on any of the maps, then there might be other unclaimed islands. And while a resourceful predator might not want to go back to Zootopia, they may want to try for one of these other places. So it always makes sense to do a head count.

And, of course, on this one night, there is someone missing.

And I think I know exactly who it is.

Doctor Jefferson counts again. Comes up one short.

I get up and count, too. I don't _know_ all the predators, but I can spot them a mile away. And there's at least one familiar face that's missing. It might mean nothing, of course. Mammals rather do like the beach. Some of them go walking. But it is ominous and there's a little ball of worry beginning to grow in my gut.

It's Melissa. Melissa isn't here.

My walk turns into a jog. The jog turns into a full on run. The run ends at her door when I collide with it, trying to turn the handle when it won't budge. I'm the first one there, and, with a muted whimper, I start trying to bash it down.

But then, Doctor Jefferson is there - his own breath coming out in huffs and pants as he clicks the key into the door and pushes it open.

Melissa's story is right there, in black and white. For everyone to read.

There is a note.

There is a body.

She has hung herself from one of the ceiling fans, the thing still lightly turning from where she had it on. It is clear she didn't want to back out, because the chair she was standing on is kicked back, down on the floor and her feet - one leg shorter than the other by a couple of inches - dangle uselessly as her body sways, lightly.

I hold my bile back for as long as I can, picking up the note and scanning it. Doctor Jefferson is too shell-shocked to stop me, though, really, he probably should. His eyes are staring up, up, up at the tongue - frozen in place and dangling out of a half-closed maw. Her own eyes dark and clouded in death. Seeing things we will never see. Stories she can never tell.

Her handwriting is impossibly neat and there are only a couple of lines.

"I'm sorry," she says. And then something that I can't read - scratched out too many times for me to tell what she'd written next, but under that, "I love you, Doctor Jefferson. I love that you gave me a little bit of freedom for a short while. But I would rather die here - die free than die there and in a cage."

There's a rush of people at the door and, one by one, predator and prey alike are slipping into the room, staring at the sight. Randall is the last one to the door, and his deep, commanding voice cuts over the commotion that's starting to build in the room.

His eyes stay fixed on the slowly swaying corpse as his words spill over us. "She's the only one with sense." And then, he walks away.


	10. Pyre

# Chapter X: Pyre

The evening meal turns from a celebration - a chance to give Melissa a last bit of happiness before she goes - into something altogether more formal and quiet. The predators look from one to the other. And the prey hang their heads in shame.

The system is broken. And we all know it.

Doctor Jefferson is absent for a lot of the meal, but when he comes back, he chooses to sit with the predators and, in turn, his staff slowly drift over to our long table. We are - after a fashion - together. Exactly like he'd planned it, but in a very different, more sombre way. The only person absent is Randall, but his light is on and there is movement in his little abode.

It trickles down - through staff to everyone - that Melissa didn't have a family. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. Abandoned at birth, she was given up for adoption and then never picked from the orphanage she stayed in.

I chase the salad around on my plate, taking a bit here and there, but mostly, I can't find it in me to eat anything.

This seems to be the case up and down the table.

At length, everyone drifts away to their own places and their own thoughts. And, as we leave, Doctor Jefferson tells us all to stay awake a little longer. To get dressed into our best clothing. There will be a funeral - tonight. A sending away, almost like they'd planned.

I can't imagine how this might go, but I slide into my little house, digging for the one suit I bought as a just-in-case. The fit is absolutely right. Checking myself in the mirror, I make sure that all the buttons are present and correct and that I have tissues to spare. It is going to be a very long night.

I might not have known her very well, but this...this is just one more preventable, senseless tragedy.

I sit on my bed, waiting, paws folded in my lap, staring at the whiteness of my fur, until the knock comes. Quietly, I had out into the night. The lights are dimmed all around the island, except for the ones that show paths. Most of the inhabitants of the island are already on my part of the path and, just ahead, I can see a collection of pall-bearers, taking the body ahead of everyone else. I fall into the subdued line, following the procession of bodies as we make our way back down toward the beach.

The beach is - by moonlight - crystal clear again. I could, if I wanted to, kick off my shoes and feel the cool sand between my toes, but I don't do that. Instead, I stand at ease - like everyone else - staring at what looks like an almost boat-like affair in the sand.

The pall-bearers place the body on this particular boat, tying Melissa down. I keep half-expecting the tigress to sit up. To be surprised. To shoo everyone away with some kind of assurance that she's just fine, thank you. But this, of course, doesn't happen. Instead, what happens is that Doctor Jefferson reads a few quiet words. Once done, he pushes the paper into a pocket and reaches out for a paw. That paw finds another. And another. And another, until prey and predator form an unbroken circle. "We are gathered this night in grief," the good Doctor finishes, "to say farewell to our friend Melissa. May her peace be collar-free."

My head is bowed. My eyes are closed. And when the words are said, I lift my head to the sky, staring at the stars for a moment before my gaze drifts down. Most of us are still holding paws, but the pall-bearers and Doctor Jefferson are doing a different kind of work, now. The pall-bearers pushing the boat into the sea, Doctor Jefferson pressing a lighter to a torch he's set up for exactly this purpose. As he touches flame to cloth - a kind of cloth that surrounds the whole ensemble - it starts up a fire. A golden, flaming pyre that grows and grows as the water slaps against the wood, making gentle waves that seem at odds with the roaring pit of despair that's creeping up on me.

Looking to my right, I find - much to my surprise - that Randall is here. This is one of the few times I've seen him be totally responsive. No thousand yard stare. No dulled reflexes. He is absorbing every moment of this tragedy. Allowing himself the luxury of feeling along with the rest of us. Maybe some part of this is jealousy at Melissa. Jealousy that she had the courage to go through with something he's been thinking about all his life. I don't know. It's difficult to tell without asking him. He most certainly isn't holding anyone's paw.

We all huddle together, Randall standing to one side. Blearily - through eyes that will not see properly for the sadness visited upon us, we watch until that pyre is just a dim glimmer. And then, in a very different way, Melissa is gone.

There is just one last thing.

One last ritual.

Doctor Jefferson had her collar in a little, plastic bag. And he fishes it out into the night, watching that little, green light glow. He takes aim. Not aim at her or her pyre. Instead, he takes aim at where Zootopia would be. And he throws. Throws with all his might.


	11. The Mending

# Chapter XI: The Mending

The first three days of the next week go by slowly. When I ask Denton about it, he tells me that suicides happen, but they're not very common. And it's always more-or-less the same. The mammal realizes that this is true freedom. And that Zootopia is a nightmare of being caged. You always know this, somewhere in the back of your mind, but to be so forcefully reminded...

It turns out that - on rare occasions, Doctor Jefferson has to pull a little more than just your bio. And in Melissa's case, that meant poring over her orphanage papers until he'd found mention of exactly what she'd wanted for her funeral. Which is how he knew about the funeral pyre. She didn't want her body somehow making its way back into the Zootopia system. Even as soil. A not particularly surprising outlook, given everything that had happened to her.

Most of the other mammals seem to recognize what happened as grave. And they understand exactly the price Melissa paid, but life has a way of carrying on. And, pretty soon almost everyone has made the jump from, "that was truly sad" to "we accept that it happened." Everyone except Randall, Bartholomew and myself. I see shadows of Melissa in everything for those first three days. I suppose Bartholomew must, too, because he doesn't go near the piano. I think he's afraid that whatever he plays will be so depressing that his sadness will spread right back to everyone else. Like an infection vector.

It has an...odd effect on Randall. A weirdly sobering one. On that third day, he gets Doctor Jefferson and I to join him in his little house - the house that Sanctuary has offered him. He sits us down at the dinner table. Pulls out bottle after bottle after bottle of little amber pills.

"I know you bought me here when I was high. And I know you didn't take these away from me, because you couldn't figure out if I actually needed them or not. They're such a crazy mixture of chemical compounds that there's no good way to reverse engineer any of what's in this, but I can tell you some of it. And I can tell you that anyone coming here with these drugs probably doesn't need them at all. These are just mood suppressors. Their only job is to make sure that a predator doesn't get off-leash. And they do that by leaving you an empty void. With these, you don't have to fear the collar. Or anything at all. Because you don't get happy or sad or violent or gentle. You just are. In fact..." he looks at these like he's seeing them for the first time. "...they're almost worse than the collar. In a way." And then he looks kind of hunted. "This - if you ever reverse engineer it - it must never, ever fall into Zootopia's hands."

Doctor Jefferson nods. "It will not. I expect you have summonsed us for more than a briefing."

At this, the large wolf gets up. "I've been thinking about Melissa. A lot," he says. This is true. He hasn't attended breakfast, lunch or supper for the last two and a half days. And while I know he's not one for the public, I have seen him out on the beach sometimes, throwing stones.

"I don't like what happens to us. I don't like the collar system. I don't like the caste system. I don't like the way all of this cuts us off from paths we've chosen," he says all of this emphatically, meaning every word, "but I don't see a way out. And I'm not sure that...turning myself into a vegetable is working all that well. I can't really help you if I'm like that," he nods to the good Doctor. "What happened to Melissa was...is terrible. And I thought I wanted to...not feel it." He holds up one bottle. "But I realized that if I did that, I'd be sending myself to the same place she went to." And for the first time, he shows true emotion. "My father is still...out there, somewhere. And I'd like to find him."

"Please let me help," Doctor Jefferson says.

Randall stares down at the bottle of pills and then at the doctor. And down at the pills again. He's choosing. I can see it in his eyes. Down one path, he might find his father and might be in a place where that matters. In another...I'm sure Doctor Jefferson will do his level best to find Randall's Dad, but...it might not matter at all.

Finally, looking into Doctor Jefferson's eyes, he makes the choice.

We follow him into the bathroom as he tips the seat up. Black tube cape is unscrewed. Big paw holding tightly around the orange tube. There's a second where I'm not sure if he can go through with his choice, but then he does, tipping the whole lot down into the water. Each little, white bit of death making a plop as it hits the water. They float there for a second and then, in slow motion, they begin to drift down to the bottom of the toilet. Heavy paw reaches up to flush and again - he's staring into the water. Staring into the abyss. I don't know what he sees there, but it must disgust him, because his face turns ugly. Snarling. And that's all it takes. The pills are gone.

"Take the rest," he says. "Figure them out."

He marches out the house, down the path and off to the beach.


	12. A Little More Faith

# Chapter XII: A Little More Faith

Randall, Bartholomew and I spend a lot of time together. Much of it, I think, has to do with how the wolf and the Badger connect. One was a poet in a former life. And the other attempted to make music. So there's a lot of mutual ground to cover. I think I happen to hang out with them because we are very nearly the oldest people on the island.

And so, of course, we're a little more reserved. And a little less optimistic that things might turn out for the best. We do spend a lot of time talking. And I tell them about a bar down in Tundratown where we might be able to meet. Not...in secret, exactly. There is no such thing in Zootopia, but the polar bears and other folk down that way turn...more of a blind eye than usual. It'll just take a little bit of money. My job as a computer science major has left me with a fair amount of that, at least.

So we make plans. We're not exactly dreaming dreams, because that part of us died a long time ago, but there is something to be said about at least _knowing_ that you can meet up again past that point of no return.

And that point of no return happens pretty soon for me.

On my last day, Doctor Jefferson has a meeting with Randall that - as soon as it's over - becomes public knowledge amongst Bartholomew and I. He hasn't _quite_ tracked down Randall's father, but he has a couple of very solid leads and it won't take very much longer. One good thing about having contacts in the Zootopia Police Department.

The day zips by. And before I know it, it is evening.

We are all outside. And to my surprise, I find that I am relaxed. I don't want to go "home." Not one bit, but it is all somewhat inevitable. And I can't very well help Doctor Jefferson if I follow Melissa's path, nor do I want to. Instead, I take up that mantle once again. Allowing my body to re-learn those slow, quiet ways. So that, by the time the evening is over - the quiet, subdued evening, when each mammal has had a chance to say goodbye to me - either in private or in public - I am back to my old state. But now...I have good memories to look back on.

At about ten in the evening, Doctor Jefferson comes to visit as I sit outside my little house. My home on Sanctuary.

"It is that moment, I'm afraid. The moment I always hate. I wish..."

His hand reaches into a pocket. Pulls out a little plastic bag with a pair of pills inside it. He lets these rest in his palm before he motions for me. We're going inside.

When we get inside, he nudges the door closed, putting the pills onto the table before me. I go and get some water and stare at them, knowing, full well that these are sleeping tablets. And knowing, full well, that once I take them, I won't be able to back out.

"...I wish that I could keep you all here. But science - the stuff I have to do - demands data. And data means numbers."

Of all the people he's talked to, I might be one of the very few who understands best, having come from a very data driven discipline in the form of computer science. So, to make this easy and quick for both of us, I take the pills and wash them down. They taste vile.

"You will hear from me again," he says, gently. Before the drugs take hold. "I won't be able to call from a listed number, but I will be able to call. Not often, of course, but..."

And then he tells me a story.

"Back when Zootopia was smaller, my grandfather had a piece of land he used to work. He loved the land. Loved giving to the land. And so he cultivated his plot as carefully as he could. He was successful and started buying out the farms to his left and right. This became a problem, because he had to hire workers. He tried asking around - wanted to get a prey posse going, but they were all too busy doing other things that had nothing to do with farming. Working the land, you see, was considered a...lower than low kind of job. You took it if you had no other prospects."

He gets up at this juncture and starts to make tea for the both of us. It seems like it's going to be a bit of a long night. And a bit of a tale.

"So, we couldn't hire prey. In the end, we started turning to predators. Most of them were humble. And most of them were only too happy to have the job. But there was one other thing that my grandfather learned that first summer in the heat. The collars didn't work."

He slides back down into his seat, having presented me with a cup full of sweet, steaming contentment.

"The heat meant itchiness and itchiness meant shocks. And shocks meant that mammals didn't want to work. And my grandfather was soft at heart. He hated the idea of forcing others. So he did a little research. Got a bunch of friends in to work with a collar or two and he discovered that there were things that could be done about removing it. Especially back then. And those men? They were completely loyal to him. Came back year after year as the farm expanded and took off. They would always share what they had with him at the end of harvest season. They'd make a feast and break bread together. When I was very young - because I'm about your age - perhaps a little older - I remember spending time on the farm at the end of the season. I remember - distinctly - how one of the big wolves hoisted me up on his shoulder and allowed me to watch as they made short work of the harvest. I never felt terrified. There was no reason to be."

He takes a sip and makes a face. I suspect that the dark point in this story is coming.

"But all things must pass. Almost fifteen years after he started the farm, the Zootopia Police Department showed up. Did a raid. It wasn't _quite_ the same as it is now, so Grandfather saw those men the very next year. But he knew: you can't tamper with the collar anymore. Those men stayed with him, even then. And he made it as comfortable for them as he could. Frequent breaks. Creams. Anything and everything to make sure his friends - because by this point, they were friends - were comfortable as they worked for him. And you know..."

I can already feel my eyes becoming heavier as his soothing voice rolls over me. I can feel sleep winding its way up my body from within my belly.

"...in all the time those men worked for my Grandfather, there was very little real animosity. And very little violence. Because those men trusted our family and we took care of them. The only time there was any kind of violence, the men protected him. They protected him against the Zootopia Police Department. And that was how my Grandfather died. So. I have a vested interest in this project. And each new predator I deal with gives me just a little more faith."

And with that, I fall forward, sleep finally claiming me.


	13. The Morning After

# Chapter XIII: The Morning After

I wake up.

I am in my bed.

My hand goes for my throat, but I already know: the collar is on again.

It was really all just a dream. A long, blissful dream.

Sitting up, I rub my eyes and survey the land. Not much has changed in my bedroom, but then...why would it? Carefully, I make my way to my mirror. Brush my teeth, settle myself into the shower. The collar doesn't go off during the shower, it just powers down more-or-less completely. As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I sigh. it had been...a very good dream. Though I can only recall fragments of it now. Mostly, I remember the doctor.

The doctor and the badger and the wolf.

I move back into the bedroom and get dressed. I'm most of the way there when I feel something prod against my shoe. It's a little piece of paper. And the piece of paper, in turn, unfolds into a little note. And the note is...from the Doctor?

I read it twice, to be sure. So, not a dream.

"Leo," the note begins, "please burn this when you have read it. While a couple of police officers in the Zootopia Police Department are aware that Sanctuary exists, most only know of it as a rumour. I don't want you to get caught smuggling 'contraband.'"

My eyes travel down and I discover a schematic. A collar schematic.

"Oh my God."

My paws tremble as I set it aside for a moment. I think I know what it is.

The picture was hiding more text, and this, I devour.

"As with every mammal who leaves Sanctuary, I want to give you something. It isn't...freedom, exactly. Not yet. But that will happen soon. I think I have enough scientific evidence, now. But this particular gift is a break. You cannot use it often. One of the deals I had to make very early on in my career is that all the mammals who come to Sanctuary end up with a chip in their collars. Your collar is now being watched more closely."

There's one more line. A simple line that means the world.

"Please keep the faith."

No signature.

Carefully, I memorize the text. Memorize the schematic. Test.

It absolutely works.

And that Tuesday, as promised, I am waiting at the bar in Tundratown.

The first Tuesday, only Bartholomew arrives. But a fortnight later, Randall does, too.


	14. Farewell, Friend

# Chapter XIV: Farewell, Friend

It is a slow four months.

A slow four months in which Randall went right back to those little white pills that he'd flushed down the toilet at Sanctuary while Doctor Jefferson and I had watched. He became progressively more subdued. And progressively more addicted again. Until that fateful day, late in the middle of spring when I had to have his door forced open, because he wouldn't answer.

I found him slumped over his desk.

In one hand, he held an amber bottle, some of its contents strewn on the floor - those innocuous little white dots making a heap on the ground. He hadn't taken them all, it seemed. Just too many for his body to cope.

In the other...

He'd talked about his father a little once I'd gotten to know him. About how his father was the most gentle mammal he knew. Of course, some of that had to do with the collar. There was no getting around that. But some of it was just in him. In who he was. He told us the story of how - one day - Billy, a young rabbit - had gone tumbling from the slide he was on. Billy was five. So just a little older than Randall at four. He had fallen in the dirt with his parents seemingly nowhere nearby.

Randall's father, a paunchy, older wolf named Preston had gone over and soothed Billy. Held him until his parents deigned to see what had become of their son. Of course, the first thing they saw was a hulking, great predator looking down at their precious boy. And that simply wouldn't do. That was the last Randall had seen of his father for almost fourteen years. They had locked him away.

...in the other hand he held a small, faded photograph that was taken when he was perhaps about four. Him and his father. Together. Their faces blissful and happy as they stared into the light of the camera.

The police absolutely swarm around the little apartment, looking for traces of drugs. Carefully combing every inch of every surface so that they can prove that he had been a hardened criminal.

I want to cry.

Good things. Bad things. At least the collar is keeping me afloat in a way. Helping me make sane decisions as I deal with the aftermath of this incredibly senseless tragedy. The police call the coroner. The coroner calls a funeral parlour. The parlour happens to be for predators, so they don't immediately slam down the 'phone.

The police eventually usher me out and the coroner - at least kindly - tells me that there will be a service in three days.

I don't _quite_ trust myself and I have to be strong, but I force myself to go down the back alleys and along the run-down paths to the old part of Zootopia. Finding my way onto the barely used monorail that will take me to Tundratown. There are only three other mammals on the monorail. The driver, one other shifty looking otter and a great, big polar bear who seems to be lost in his mobile 'phone.

As the train moves across the sections of the city, I find myself staring down at the scenery as it passes by. Like a God staring down at ants. I can't help but sigh.

Midway through the journey, my own 'phone vibrates. Fishing for it, I find that it is an unlisted number. Part of me doesn't know if I even have the strength to talk to a telemarketer. Part of me thinks that just hearing a voice - any voice - and preferably one that isn't dealing with the tragedy - will soothe my nerves, so I hold the little slab of electronics up to my ear, hitting the answer button along the way.

The warm, gentle voice on the other end of the line isn't who I'm expecting. "Master Sedris?"

I nod. Then realize that Doctor Jefferson can't see me. It takes a moment for me to find my voice. I have to keep it casual. The otter and the polar bear are citizens. They might _know_ that Sanctuary exists, but they might also just turn me in for talking to someone like the good Doctor. So I keep my voice as neutral as I can. Thankfully, the collar has taught me all about being neutral in terrible situations. And I have been a good student.

"I can't talk right now, I'm afraid," I tell the voice at the other end, trying to pass this off as exactly a call from a telemarketer. "But I will be available again in about an hour."

"Understood," he says. And just like that, the line goes dead.

And I am all alone, once more.

A little bit of the Rainforest District goes by, and then, at long last, I am in Tundratown.

This station isn't nearly as busy as Zootopia Central - the only folks I see getting on and off the monorail are all well dressed against the cold - but that's just fine with me. I stop off and buy an extra coat, gloves and decent boots. This is the only purchase I plan to make along the way and I do it with cash. Tundratown generally only takes bills, anyway.

My breath gusts in front of me as I make my way through the near-empty streets, walking to my destination. The cold and the walk do a great deal to free me from my sadness and by the time I'm on Blizzard Street, making my way for the run-down bar, I am not...chipper, exactly, but I feel a little more even-keeled.

The inside of the bar contrasts sharply with the frost and snow, outside. It is all warm colours and red mood lighting. There's quiet music going, even. I don't make my way to the bar to order anything. Normally, that's exactly what I would do, but today isn't that kind of day. Instead, I make a bee-line for the restrooms, pushing the door open, allowing my heavy body to lead the way to the nearest stall. I slip inside, finding that the toilet seat is up. I don't actually need to use it, so I set it down. Turn around. Lock the door.

Tugging my 'phone from my pocket, I stare at the time. It has been a little over an hour, now. But I understand. Maybe Doctor Jefferson can't call back immediately. In the interim, I allow myself to breathe in. Breathe out. Relax.

This next part isn't difficult, but I don't want to be in a bad place when I do it.

I close my eyes as I allow my thick digits to find the release mechanism on the collar. And even as I'm doing this, I feel...I feel sort of like a traitor to predatorkind. I feel like a traitor exactly because I can do this trick and that many of them cannot. But in this one case...Carefully, I append the little chip that simulates my heart-beat, hanging the collar itself from the coat hook at the back of the door.

And I ache.

Finally, I allow the tears to come. My large paws obscuring my eyes as I weep into them. The warmth of the water sliding through my fingertips and down, down, down onto the ground. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew this would happen. I had always known it, in fact. Ever since I'd met Randall. But to have it happen so soon...

My reverie is finally broken by the vibration of my 'phone. That unlisted number again. I hoist the little, electronic gadget up to my ear and say a tired, sad, "hello."

And that voice - calm and gentle - whispers through it.

"I'm sorry, Master Sedris."

"I am, too," is all I can think to say, while a sob wracks my body. "I don't...I don't think I can go to the funeral."

"I understand, but..."

There's something in his voice. Some hitch that I remember from my time in Sanctuary. I think he's planning something. It's difficult to tell.

"It will be difficult for you - difficult to maintain your composure. Difficult to be steady at this time, but I will be there. And I think that I can help."

He is definitely planning something.

There's a pause and then he sends the kind of re-assurance that I'm not sure I want to hear because I've heard it before.

"Just hold on. Three more days."

With this, he hangs up and I am left alone again. Alone with my thoughts and my memories and that bitter, bitter feeling of emptiness. But at least - betrayer that I am - I am allowed to feel angry and alone and frustrated. Am allowed to explore all of these emotions to the full extent of their range.

My grief - occasionally - has to be interrupted by people stepping in and using the facilities. But that doesn't matter. At least I am allowed grief. Something most predators simply cannot afford.

And in the end, hours go by before I feel like I can slip on the collar again.


	15. Over

# Chapter XV: Over

It is an overcast day.

This is sort of fitting for the way I feel, but the way I feel isn't something I can readily or easily show. I have made a point of wearing all black as far as I can, but have also made sure that the collar is utterly visible. That the green light of everlasting "peace" is prominently on display.

When I get there, I find that there aren't very many mourners. But that seems about right, too. Randall's parents are both gone from this world and the only real friends he had - as far as I'm aware - were people from work. There are, of course, the handful of us who knew him at the Sanctuary. And I find, much to my surprise, that we are all here. The handful of us huddle together while the Priest - who is a sheep - gets things moving along.

And then...something happens.

Some near miraculous thing that I do not understand right then.

Doctor Jefferson arrives. And it isn't just him. There are a collection of other mammals along with him. In short order, the funeral grounds turn into a kind of stomping grounds as many, many reporters have come along with him. Some are snapping pictures of us. Some are snapping pictures of the Priest. Some are taking pictures of the casket in which Randall now rests. But most have their eyes on the good Doctor. He is carrying a collection of papers, most of which are buried under his arm.

I think some of them are here because it is the first time in - literally - years that anyone from Sanctuary has returned to the mainland. Certainly, there have been predators that return all the time, but these are of no consequence. They're just predators.

The Priest tries.

But every time he sort of gets underway, a reporter will pipe up and start asking questions. In the end, he abandons his post, opting to sit on one of the chairs in the back. Without much ado, he tugs a cigar between his lips and waits.

Doctor Jefferson walks to the headstone of the grave, looks down into it. From where he's standing, he can see the cheap wood and metal of the box that was all Randall's funeral plan would cover. For a second, he looks up, eyes lazily scanning all of us - those who had been on Sanctuary island. At long last, he surveys the press, his paws gripping the tombstone tightly. He clears his throat and then launches into a speech that I have to re-watch, later, because by the time it is over, I cannot properly hear him over the roaring din of the reporters.

"This is a funeral," he begins. "And to your left and right there are mourners." His hands slip from the gravestone to encompass us. We few. "The trouble is that these mammals were all close to Randall - to varying degrees. I was - for want of a better term, his doctor. You," he indicates the reporters - and belatedly, the Priest, "you never knew him. You never knew the pain he had to endure. How, for fourteen years, he lost his father to the justice system because his father was a kind-hearted soul."

Then, he turns to me. He gives me the very slightest bow. "To my left is Master Leo Sedris. Leo is a very intelligent lion who ended up in computer science. But Leo, as you can plainly see, is pure white. White as snow. He is an albino. And as he was growing up, he was teased. Teased for something he could not control. He could never defend himself."

Finally, he turns to Bartholomew. His eyes surveying the old badger. A badger gone grey where his black fur used to be. They lock eyes for a moment. "And this is my friend Bartholomew. Bartholomew loves music. He loves it so much that he wants to make it, but he can't. There is no way for him to get invested in any of the pieces he starts. No way for him to adequately love any of his creations."

"They all have these in common."

He holds up a collar. Holds it high so everyone can see. And then he does the unthinkable. He tugs the collar down. Down and around his own neck, wearing it like a kind of crown. He makes absolutely sure that each and every camera gets a chance to go off once he's done clipping it on.

He takes the papers from under his arm, turns them around so that the cameras can catch these, too. "I have been doing research. For the last twenty years, I have been living in a place called Sanctuary Island. Many of you know about it. And yes. The rumour is absolutely true. When predators come to us, we make a point of removing their collars. Certainly, there have been rare incidents of violence on the island. But these incidents are about on par with violent incidents here, in Zootopia." A shuffling of the pages. Graphs. Side by side.

"And ALL of these incidents of violence in Zootopia are more-or-less contributed by prey. Predators can't, you see. For if they start in on a violent act..." he turns his head. That green, peaceful light is staying green.

"On the island, we make a point of learning about each and every individual. Which is why I know about Leo's teasing. And Randall's drug problem. And Bartholomew's desire to make music. You," he points to the cameras, "you do not want to know these mammals because you think - mistakenly - that they will harm you if you get too close. But these...these are my friends."

And, without missing a beat, he walks over to us. Stands beside us as we stare down at the grave site. "And these friends don't deserve this treatment."

He looks up at us once more. There are audible gasps as the camera crews try to turn and twist to get a shot of this crazy mammal standing with a collection of predators. And then - in slow motion, I expect, all of them catch the moment where he slides his fingers into mine, holding my paw.

Suddenly, there's more bustle.

The little Priest who started off exasperated, absolutely gives up at this point. Instead of trying to do a eulogy for someone he never knew, he, instead, starts winding his way through the crowd, slipping between others until he is standing with us. This gets another audible gasp - the cameras whizzing and snapping - flashes flying thick and fast.

This new bustle looks important. A bunch of mammals in suits. Lots of them. From a casual glance, I think I actually know some of them - from TV mostly. And then it hits me like a truck. This is the government. These are the lawmakers. There are giraffes, elephants, rabbits - all sorts. All smartly dressed. One of these - a tall buffalo - stands forward and apart from the crowd. His voice is deep, loud enough to carry across the noise. And when he speaks, all eyes turn toward him. The deafening roar of sudden silence crashing across and into everything as he enunciates each word.

"For the longest time we have been ruled - ruled by fear. We believed that the collars would solve a problem that wasn't truly an issue at all. We believed that genetic programming resulted in behaviours that were predictable. Immutable. Wild."

One of the newer newscasters starts putting up a paw so that he can be acknowledged. But someone - some older hand presses the paw down. This is clearly important and not to be interrupted.

"Science - the kind of documented and well-researched science that costs real money has proved, over and over again that segregating prey mammals from predator mammals through the use of collars simply has no good outcome. It has created a caste system. A system that has broken our society in ways that will take generations to mend. But that mending begins today."

I find, much to my surprise, that I cannot look away. I cannot tear my eyes from this cape buffalo. But more than that, I cannot believe the little pitter patter that has started in my heart. The little flutter that his words have stirred. I know better, of course. I know that showing this happiness will end in a shock, but I can't help myself. Looking around at our little group, I see the same thing happening over and over.

The hushed silence spreads like a blanket over everyone - newscaster and funeral-goer alike. And in the centre there are two. Doctor Jefferson on the one side and Mayor Patterson on the other.

I see...something in the mayor's eyes. Fear, maybe? Fear. Yes.

He steps back a pace. But Doctor Jefferson's hand relinquishes my own as he holds his palms open, palm up. So that everyone can see he bears no weapons. His collar, too, has turned yellow. The kind of yellow that presages danger.

An omen.

"You fear these predators," his voice rings out, pure and true, picking up from where the Mayor left off. "You fear the undoing of a long-held truth because you do not understand that the truth has been twisted. That the truth has become a lie. These friends of mine - they are distraught at the death of their friend. And being distraught is tied to having a pulse. And having an elevated pulse means being shocked. THIS is the truth."

And, out of all of us, Bartholomew is the first to break. The first to begin falling to his knees. It is too much for the old badger. Right on cue, of course, his tears beget that immediate response. As his first sob rips through the air, so the sound and smell and sight of electricity shares that same air. Pain and countermeasure both tearing through the space. The cameras catch it. Catch the moment his face turns from sadness to horror as the collar brings him to heel.

"No." I say, Sinking down to my knees to save my friend - but I know I cannot touch him. Once a collar starts, it's like a chain reaction. If I so much as reach for him, that electric energy will find another agent to spring to.

And this is why a mother has to watch in helpless horror as her son learns the harsh truth of the world for themselves. Or why it is impossible to comfort a friend in dire need of being held. Why we - as predators - are utterly and irrevocably alone.

I turn my eyes toward the Mayor. Toward Doctor Jefferson. Pleading.

Neither of these men have the solution, but someone in the Zootopia Police Department does. A boy - he can't be more than eighteen or nineteen, is standing in his issued uniform with a device - a thing that I know must exist, because they have to stop the collars, somehow. He has his slender finger settled on a red button. An antennae aimed for the spot along the ground where Bartholomew is clutching at his neck, fighting with the electricity coursing through his body. In an instant, he goes still. His eyes staring up at the sky. The rain pelting him. He is...lucky. Lucky to still be alive.

"No more," the young police officer declares. And, like a magic wand, he aims that antennae at each of us in turn and I find that, much to my surprise, the collar comes undone. Cameras catch this moment, too. In slow motion. Metal sails to grass, landing with a quiet thud. And in an instant, I am on my knees, wrapping my sturdy arms around Bartholomew. And we are crying together.

I don't hear it when the Mayor announces that a bill has just been passed. And that this bill forbids the use of collars. Outlaws taming parties. Makes it a criminal offense to be in possession of a collar at all.

It isn't really over. It will take - as the Mayor said - generations to get things right. But for now...

...perhaps the healing can begin.

* * *

 

**THE END.**

* * *

 


	16. Epilogue

# Epilogue

I never found Timothy.

But Randall found his father.

His sweet, gentle father had - according to medical science - contracted Alzheimer's. We visited him twice, but he never recognized his son.

Bartholomew had no family. So we became his family. He cared desperately for Randall and did everything in his power to arrest his fall from grace, but in the end...only Randall could save himself. And Randall - after his brief turn toward the sun - didn't really know how to do that properly.

After that...Bartholomew and I began to see more and more of each other, finding that we had a lot more in common than I really thought, at first. It took years - a slow, careful unwinding of all that terror and pain - and those learned reactions - to realize that we were in love with one another. And years after that to tie the knot.

Both Denton and Doctor Jefferson were there.

When it was all over - after everyone had left, the good Doctor came over to us. He had no real words. All he could do was hug. Hug and hold us. But it was enough.

And when we got home, we found - much to our delight - that he'd sent the piano from the island to us as a wedding gift with a note. No schematic this time. And no request to burn the note, either.

"Sanctuary has turned into a place of light and laughter - like it was when you were there, years ago. I run it now as a kind of caretaker. It would honour me if you would visit from time to time."

This note is signed, unlike the last.

The signature is simple. Illegible, as befits a Doctor.

"Your friend, Jefferson."


End file.
